


The Memory Book of Detectives' Lestrade and Holmes

by jankmusic



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Family, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Sherstrade, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:27:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3633285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jankmusic/pseuds/jankmusic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated stories about the lives, families, and friends of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Unsuspecting Daughter

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I'm posting my short (but growing) collection of Sherstrade prompt fills and fics from Tumblr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes breaks into Greg Lestrade's flat and is met by one big surprise.

When Sherlock Holmes broke into Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade’s flat, he was anticipating a quick visit; all he needed was to pinch the good inspector’s warrant card and badge for a case. It seemed that during his hiatus, Mrs. Hudson had returned his stash of warrant cards that he kept in his bedroom when Lestrade was being annoying.

 

What he found, instead, when he broke into the flat and strode through the front door, carelessly leaving it open, was a two year old little girl wearing a pale yellow nightgown. She spun around quickly at the sound of footsteps, and for a second she and Sherlock held eye contact, and then her face scrunched up and she let out a shriek,

 

“DAAAADDY!”

 

Before Sherlock could even think about consoling the little girl or try to figure out who she was, Lestrade came barreling down the hallway, his gun out and pointing directly at Sherlock.

 

For a few tense seconds, the only sound was the little girl’s cries. Then Lestrade turned the safety back on his gun and dropped it to the sofa and picked up the terrified little girl, cradling her against his chest. “Take that,” he growled, looking at Sherlock, “And put it in my nightstand.”

 

Sherlock didn’t need to ask what he was talking about. He quickly picked up the gun and went straight down the unfamiliar hallway and to the bedroom he assumed was Lestrade’s. He put the gun in the nightstand drawer that was still open, and closed it before taking the key that was still in the lock and locking it before putting it on the stand.

 

When he stepped out of the bedroom, all the lights were on in the flat and he could distantly hear the sound of bath water running.

 

Sherlock stepped back into the room and noticed a wet spot on the floor. Assuming the little girl had an accident, Sherlock went in the direction of the kitchen and searched in all the obvious places for a bucket and soap. He took off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair, and then he quickly cleaned up the mess, feeling guilty at having terrified a child so badly she wet herself, and then he put the supplies away.

 

His mind was still reeling over the fact that Lestrade had a child that he didn’t even realize Lestrade was in the kitchen until he heard, “I could fucking kill you right now, Sherlock.”

 

He snapped his eyes onto the older man glaring at him from the doorway. “Why in the bloody world would you do something like this?” he hissed, stepping closer to him. “I tried explaining that you were just a friend visiting daddy, but she was nearly inconsolable. She’s going to have nightmares for weeks now. What were you thinking?”

 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times before he croaked, “I didn’t know you had a child.”

 

“You didn’t know?” Lestrade asked in disbelief. “You didn’t bloody know? Mary and John have watched her dozens of times, Mrs. Hudson as a picture of her in her flat, and Molly Hooper has almost completely spoiled her rotten!” His voice was raising, but he abruptly cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know what? It doesn’t bloody matter—I don’t bloody matter, evidently, if you lacked the knowledge that I have a two year old daughter living in my flat. Get what you came for and get out. I’m going to bed.”

 

And with that, Lestrade turned on his heel and left the room. Sherlock followed him, stopping in the living room when he saw Lestrade step into a bedroom that wasn’t his. He watched as a minute later, he carried the little girl from that room and into his bedroom, closing the door softly behind him.

 

\-----

 

Lestrade woke the next morning to the smell of frying bacon. His eyes snapped open after a few seconds, and he nearly toppled out of bed in haste to see if his daughter was attempting to cook breakfast without him before he realized that said little girl was curled up on top of him, her head resting on his chest.

 

He breathed a quick sigh of relief and then closed his eyes again, no doubt in his mind that Sherlock Holmes was in his flat, making breakfast.

 

He scrubbed his hands over his face and then carefully scooped up the little girl, depositing her back into his bed. He then went to the loo connected to his bedroom and then stepped out of his room, leaving the door open a crack.

 

He followed the smell of bacon into his kitchen and leaned against the doorway, watching as Sherlock placed a heaping plate of bacon on the small table, alongside toast and scrambled eggs. After fiddling around at the cooker and halfheartedly cleaning up invisible messes, Sherlock turned around and had the decency to look sheepish.

 

“I made breakfast.”

 

Lestrade arched an eyebrow. “Not going to apologize then?”

 

Sherlock dropped his gaze and huffed, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t realize you had a child, and said child would be up at three o’clock in the morning, going to the loo.”

 

Lestrade frowned and shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Of course Sherlock would blame the whole thing on his daughter, who had “impeccable” timing. He went straight to his counter and filled his electric kettle. He was out of coffee, and he was intending on running to the shops later in the morning, but he now had to deal with the mess that Sherlock inadvertently created that morning.

 

Well, at least Lestrade finally confirmed that nothing had changed over the course of the last few years.

 

As Lestrade made tea, he did his best to ignore Sherlock’s gaze on the back of his head. If he could get a little bit of caffeine in his system, that would make the morning a wee bit better.

 

“She’s almost three years old.”

 

Lestrade grunted in reply.

 

“Conceived after my death.”

 

“Right.”

 

“And the mother…?”

 

Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face, wishing he didn’t have to have this conversation so early in the morning, but knowing that Sherlock would be relentless until he responded. “We had a one-off. Met her in a pub during the beginning of my suspension after you offed yourself. We were both drinking, our contraception failed, and she got pregnant.”

 

“So you get her on the weekends?”

 

“Actually, no,” Lestrade said, talking to his electric kettle. “I have custody of her. Her mother is a doctor and was due to start a two year long rotation in Africa about a year after we met. We tried to make the relationship work, but it didn’t. We ended things amicably, and when she gave birth, I got full custody. I still talk to her two or three times a week, and I always send her pictures so she’s in the loop, but she won’t be back in the country for a bit.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, and kept quiet until Lestrade had his tea. He poured a cup for Sherlock as well, dressing it the way he always took his tea.

 

“What’s her name?”

 

Lestrade stared into his cup for a moment, before saying, “Charlotte Scott Lestrade.”

 

Sherlock choked on his tea, and Lestrade couldn’t help but chuckle. “Don’t be too surprised. Her mother’s last name was Scott. I did choose Charlotte after you, though, you tosser. Because you were a good man and I felt you had to be honored somehow when that shit storm was still going around about you being a fake.”

 

After taking several heaving breaths, Sherlock croaked, “Am I not a good man, anymore?”

 

“Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped, sounding surprisingly like Sherlock when he was irritated. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow in surprise, but Lestrade didn’t say anything. He finished his tea before turning around and placing the mug in the sink. He was expecting Charlotte to wake up at any moment, ready for breakfast, which meant making sure the potty seat adapter was securely on the toilet and her little step stool was where it was supposed to be.

 

As he was leaving the kitchen and going towards the bathroom, he felt a hand wrap around his wrist. He halted and turned his head to look at Sherlock. “I should have paid more attention since I returned; I should have known that you had a child. It’s inexcusable that I didn’t know. I am a terrible friend, and for that Greg, I am truly sorry.”

 

He pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Lestrade’s mouth before dropping his wrist and leaving the flat quickly, his coat slung over his arm.

 

Lestrade leaned against the doorframe for several long minutes before exhaling noisily. “Well, shit.”

 

And then the sound of his daughter’s soft footsteps coming from his bedroom made him focus. He forced himself to smile brightly and step further into the living room, sweeping his little girl into his arms and kissing her face until she was giggling madly.

 

He would have to deal with Sherlock later; what was more important at the moment was getting Charlotte to the loo and then eating breakfast.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


	2. Film Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg Lestrade has a love for film music, and Sherlock is just a wee bit jealous.

Greg Lestrade loves going to the cinema, and in all honesty, he spends a lot of time there after work than he does at home. And he always sees the same movie twice, once to watch, and once to listen, because Lestrade loves film scores.

At first Sherlock is confused as to why Lestrade goes to the cinema so often, and thinks that he might be dating someone (which gives him a horrible feeling in his gut, because Greg didn’t date, not since his divorce), so he tails him one random Wednesday afternoon. 

After seeing the same movie twice and observing Lestrade both times, Sherlock puts two and two together and realizes he’s mostly listening to music rather than paying attention to the action on screen.

When Lestrade returns home after his afternoon out at the cinema and fish and chips at his favorite pub, he’s surprised to see Sherlock sitting at his kitchen table, fiddling with his phone. But Lestrade jumps back when Sherlock launches from his seat and presses the phone into his hands.

“I got you a new phone because your old one is ancient; Greg, it flips open!”

And with that, he stormed out of his flat, slamming the door behind him.

Lestrade stood motionless for a moment, staring at the phone. He wasn’t sure what he should be more surprised about; Sherlock purchasing him a gift, the light blush that was covering his cheeks and forehead, or Sherlock calling him by his first name without prompting.

After a few seconds, he moved to his sofa, dropping down and staring at his new phone. He knew how to work an iPhone, Sally had one and he’s used it a few times. He swiped his thumb over the screen and saw Sherlock had the music app running. Curious, he glanced through it and his eyes widened at the hundreds of film scores that filled his phone.

When his eyes landed on Transformers: Age of Extinction, his eyes narrowed and he growled out, “I knew someone was watching me today!” He left the music app and after a brief search of his neatly organized apps, he found his text messages. Before he could even send one to Sherlock, he received three simultaneously.

I have the sheet music for some of your favorite films, if you are inclined to hear arrangements for solo violin.—SH

Put a password on your phone. It’s not hard.—SH

If you can’t figure it out, I’ll show you tonight. 8:00. Angelo’s.—SH

His irritation melted away, replaced with nerves and anticipation. He waited nearly a minute before typing out his response slowly.

It’s a date.—GL


	3. Lockpicking Fails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from dennyismydestiel: sherlock tries to prove his lock picking skills to lestrade and fails miserably, such a shame that they are locked together ;)

_“Oh no_! We’re _locked_ in the cupboard!”

“Sherlock, seriously? Get your lock pick set out and unlock the door. Sally is waiting for us at the Yard! I can’t believe you bloody shoved us in here in the first place.”

“I heard a noise and I wanted us to be safe.” Sherlock was glad the cupboard was dark and there was no source of light, or else Lestrade would be livid at the smirk on his face.

“Right. Bloody well show off and unlock the door, for Christ sakes. Just because John is busy with the baby doesn’t mean you get to make your new audience suffer.”

“New audience? Lestrade, you’ve been around for centuries. I hardly consider you _new_ ,” he grumbled, kneeling down on the floor. He ignored Lestrade’s retort filled with expletives and focused his attention on the door. The lock was old which meant he had to be careful, but he was certain that he could get them out in a minute, tops. Getting them out quickly would mean an affectionate pat on the back, maybe even a cuff on the chin. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock could get Lestrade to agree to eat a meal together, not case related.

It all depended on whether or not the door actually opened like it was supposed to! Sherlock hoped he didn’t pick the wrong cupboard. If so, they could be in a bit of trouble.

“Is it unlocked yet?”

“Have patience,” Sherlock grumbled, irritated that the locking wasn’t giving. It should have opened approximately twenty seconds ago.

Lestrade huffed. “Coming from the biggest toddler I know…”

Sherlock worked steadily, trying to get the door unlocked, growling in frustration when it still wouldn’t open.

“Are we stuck?” Lestrade asked, aiming to put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but landing on his head instead. “It’s locked isn’t it? Well, get out your mobile and call Sally. Tell her where we are.”

“My mobile is in the car. _You_ call Sally and tell her where we are.” Well, his plan of showing off for Lestrade went to complete shit, and Sherlock was rapidly trying to find an alternative that wouldn’t end up with him getting either punched in the face or his hair pulled; he shifted beneath the weight of Lestrade’s hand on the top of his head. Honestly, he knew Lestrade wouldn’t punch him, but he wasn’t sure about the hair pulling...

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he would object to a little tugging on his follicles…

“I would, if my mobile wasn’t also in the car!”

So that last bit was shouted, and Sherlock jumped, startled from his thoughts. Lestrade winced, not liking it when he was shout-y and Sherlock was vulnerable; it always ends up with him apologizing to the Consulting Detective. After a moment of awkward silence, Lestrade remembered his hand was still on Sherlock’s head, so he gently ran his fingers through his curls in apology. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s—uhhhh—alright. Fine. It’s fine. More than fine. A bit good. Yes. Just…don’t stop that…please.” He tilted his head back against Lestrade’s hand, squeezing his eyes shut. He heard Lestrade chuckle breathily, and he shivered at the sound, feeling goose bumps break out across his arms.

Sherlock thought it would be a good idea to literally launch himself at Lestrade, his knees taking a bit of pain from the friction of spinning on the floor, but because it was dark, Lestrade was caught off guard and tumbled to the ground, Sherlock not quite breaking his fall.

The two lay in a pile on the floor of the small cupboard, Lestrade groaning on the floor. “Did I break you?” Sherlock whispered. Even with limited senses, he tried to calculate the damage done to Lestrade’s body. It didn’t sound like his head slammed into the wall, but he could be wrong.

“A bit, yeah. Shit.” The two stayed on the floor for several long moments, as Lestrade groaned in pain. Sherlock determined that his shoulder hit the wall then the floor, taking the brunt of the fall. Lestrade’s hand, which still had a firm grasp on Sherlock’s hair, gave an experimental tug. “Come up here. If we’re locked in this God forsaken cupboard for a bit, we might as well be comfortable.”

In no time, Sherlock had the two of them arranged in a more comfortable position, their backs against the wall and their feet stretched out across the cupboard, toes almost touching the opposite wall. Sherlock rubbed Lestrade’s uninjured shoulder, knowing it wasn’t enough to make whatever pain he was in go away. “Sorry,” he whispered. _How could you have been so stupid? He has decent reflexes in broad daylight, but you’re locked in a lightless cupboard! You’re so stupid, Sherlock!_ Mycroft’s voice taunted him in his Mind Palace, but Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when he felt Lestrade snuggle a bit closer to him, resting his head on his shoulder.

They stayed that way in silence until help arrived, and during that time, Lestrade’s hand migrated from Sherlock’s head to his hand.

Maybe his plan didn’t go to shit after all.

 


	4. Sleepwalking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from loryisunabletosupinate: unestablished sherstrade where greg is having a bad day and sherlock does everything in his power to make sure everything is great for greg the next day

Honestly, Sherlock Holmes was expecting a quiet day in watching crap telly and working on some experiments in his kitchen. He just got home for a four day case in Scotland, and as much as he adored John Watson and his family, he needed a full day to decompress before he reinserted himself into the Watson’s lives again.

 

He had been updating his blog while simultaneously watching Jeremy Kyle when he heard the door downstairs slam open and then slam shut. Sherlock very carefully lowered the lid of his laptop and cocked his head to the side, listening to the tread of familiar footsteps up the stairs.

 

He stood up slowly as Greg Lestrade swayed in his doorway.

 

Sherlock’s first thought was that the Detective Inspector was drunk.

 

And then the man began bellowing.

 

Sherlock jumped and clutched his laptop tightly as Lestrade paced in front of the door, every other word in his vocabulary a swear word. Sherlock was so shocked that the Detective was yelling that his mind went offline for a moment. When he was finally able to focus on Lestrade, he was halfway through his tirade and Sherlock had no idea what was happening or who he was talking about.

 

“And another thing! If you could bloody well share information every once in a while, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I wouldn’t have to dodge bullets all day long! For fuck sakes, I’m giving you these cases because I know what you’re like when you’re bored, and I’m really sick and tired of you treating me worse than rubbish! I’m really fucking tired, Sherlock!” And like that, Lestrade turned around as if he was going to go back downstairs.

 

Sherlock jumped up, catching his laptop at the last second before it tumbled to the ground. He placed it in his recently vacated seat and closed the distance between them. Something was particularly odd about this; not once in their entire...friendship has Lestrade yelled at Sherlock or called him by his full name. Also, his blinking pattern was off. For a man who was as angry as Greg Lestrade, he was blinking remarkably slowly.

 

When Sherlock finally reached Lestrade, he put a hand on his shoulder. Before he could say a word, Lestrade murmured, “And my name isn’t Geoff or Graham or Gavin. It’s Greg. Gregory Lestrade.”

 

For a moment there was complete silence, and then Lestrade collapsed towards the ground. “Lestrade!” Sherlock gasped, catching him before he could fall down the stairs. Eventually Sherlock managed to get the both of them on the floor. For a moment he was motionless, and then he dug his phone out of his pocket.

 

“John I need help.”

_“What’s wrong?”_

 

“I don’t know. Lestrade just walked into my flat not two minutes ago, ranting and raving, and then he just collapsed!” Sherlock press his middle and index fingers against Lestrade’s throat, searching for his pulse. “And his pulse is fast. Too fast.”

_“Right. Fever?”_

 

“No.”

_“Call 999. Then text me what hospital you’re going to—”_

 

“Wait!” Sherlock whispered, nearly dropping his phone. He leaned over until his ear was closer to Lestrade’s mouth, and listened. “Oh, my God. He’s snoring.”

 

There was silence on the other end of the phone, and then John began to laugh. _“He’s sleeping?”_

 

“I think so. Does he have a history of sleep walking?”

_“As a matter of fact…”_ John hesitated for a moment. _“I mean, I don’t think it’s breaking doctor patient confidentiality, but he was having a bit of trouble sleeping during his divorce. It took him driving to work while sleeping before he saw a doctor. I referred him to a specialist. And he has been on a bloody awful case. I had to bring him a change of clothes yesterday. Bloke hasn’t slept properly in almost a week.”_

 

“That explains this whole situation.” Sherlock sighed and then rubbed the back of his neck. “Should I wake him?”

_“Yes, but you have to do it gently. Do not frighten him, or it could make this situation worse.”_

 

\-----

 

Greg Lestrade woke up to the sound of his alarm ringing on his phone. For a few seconds he was motionless, and then he began patting down his pockets searching for his mobile. “Fell asleep in my clothes again. Must be on my sofa…” he grumbled to himself, unable to find his mobile. He opened his eyes blearily and saw his suit jacket folded neatly on Sherlock’s coffee table. He reached for it, dug out his phone, and then turned off the alarm.

 

He dropped back down to the sofa and closed his eyes. He just finished an awful case of the century and he had the next three days off.

 

Just as he was drifting off back to sleep, his brain finally kicked him and he snapped upright, blinking his eyes rapidly. He swung his head back and forth, taking in Sherlock’s sitting room, Sherlock’s television, Sherlock’s shelves and Billy the skull. “What in the world…Sherlock?”

 

“Good! You’re awake. Mrs. H. just brought up tea and toast. She was very adamant about cooking a full breakfast after she saw you on the sofa, so I hope you’re hungry.”

 

Sherlock popped into the sitting room, his robe billowing behind him, and set a heaping tea tray on the table in front of Lestrade. “Your tea, just as you like it, and some scones. I have coffee, but that can wait until after your tea. I know how much you enjoy your coffee after breakfast.”

 

“But—”

 

“And I have that dreadful crime drama queued up in my bedroom, so as soon as you finish eating, we can watch it. Blue Bloods? It has the man from Magnum P.I. in it.” After a moment, Sherlock plopped himself on the floor on the other side of the table and shoved a whole scone in his mouth.

 

“How did I get here?” Lestrade managed to ask, rubbing at his eyes. “I was checking paperwork on my sofa at home, and the next thing I know—”

 

“You got into your car, asleep by the way, drove here and fell asleep at the top of the stairs. It’s a miracle I managed to get you to the sofa. You’re quite heavy when you’re asleep,” Sherlock somehow managed to say around a mouthful of food. He swallowed quickly and chased the scone done with a large sip of tea.

 

“I’m so sorry!” Lestrade said, struggling to his feet. “I should leave. I’m sorry. I—”

 

“Mycroft already sent two men over. They grabbed a few changes of clothes and locked up for you. You have nowhere to be for the next few days, so I suggest you have a seat right now and eat your breakfast. Mrs. Hudson will be up any minute to join us.”

 

Lestrade saw no other option but to drop back down to the sofa. He raked his fingers through his hair then rested his hand on the back of his neck, sighing softly. “Did I say anything?”

 

Sherlock took another sip of his tea before placing his mug back on the table. “It was very odd. I was in here working, and all of the sudden you appear. Then you just collapsed and went to sleep.” Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “Mycroft said you drove here safely and you parked your car correctly, so you weren’t in any real danger.”

 

“I am sorry.”

 

Sherlock scrunched his nose and glared at Lestrade. “Oh stop apologizing Greg, and drink your tea. It’s getting cold!”

 

Lestrade blinked rapidly, staring at Sherlock. He thought he heard incorrectly, because Sherlock never called him Greg, but after a moment, and with Sherlock still glaring at him, he reached for him mug and took a sip. “Yes. Perfect,” he whispered, leaning back into the sofa, finally relaxing for the first time since he woke up that morning.

 

\-----

 

Surprisingly, Lestrade had a relaxing time at Sherlock’s. He knew he and Sherlock were…well, he wasn’t sure what they were, _exactly_. And Sherlock was unexpectedly doting on Lestrade, making sure he ate enough for breakfast, warming his towel for his shower, and he even offered his bedroom so he could watch the telly all day.

 

And the icing on the cake was that Sherlock had consistently called him Greg _all day_. No Graham, Gavin, Geoff, or Lestrade. Just Greg. It was nice. It was completely odd, but it was nice.

 

Lestrade stretched his arms over his head and then resumed his position in Sherlock’s bed, curled up on his side with a pillow tucked under his head. He was feeling sleepy again, having not gotten a lot of sleep in the last few weeks, and he was nearly 100% certain that he was about to take a nap.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Hmm?” Lestrade rolled over and looked at the doorway. Sherlock was leaning against the doorway, hip propped against the doorway. He had been watching television with Lestrade most of the day, but he disappeared during the last episode of Blue Bloods to work on an experiment in the kitchen.

 

“Need anything? I can get you something to eat? I have ham—”

 

“What experiment have you been working on the last forty minutes?”

 

“Experiment?” Sherlock asked, pushing himself off the doorway. “Oh! When I said experiment, I meant pork roast. I’m cooking.”

 

Lestrade stared at him wide eyed as he made his way over and all but threw himself on his bed. “Cooking? I don’t smell anything.”

 

Sherlock waved his head dismissively before tucking it behind his head. “I prepared it in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen; it was more sanitary. It’s in the oven down there too. Do you like pork roast, Greg?”

 

Lestrade didn’t answer right away. He just stared at Sherlock for a few moments, his mind trying to play catch up, because everything about the last fifteen hours has been beyond bizarre. When Lestrade didn’t respond, Sherlock turned his head to scrutinize him. “What?”

 

“You’re acting strange. Odd. Friendly.”

 

“Friendly. Well, that’s how friends act towards their friends, right? Friendly?”

 

“We’re friends?” Lestrade asked without thinking.

 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth twisted down. He pressed his fingers to his mouth for a moment, and then he cleared his throat. Lestrade held his breath, not sure what Sherlock was going to say. “I thought we were friends, Greg.”

 

“And why do you keep calling me Greg?” It was as if his mouth was moving without checking in with his brain first.

 

“Well that’s your name, isn’t it?!” Sherlock snapped, sitting up suddenly. Lestrade winced at his outburst. “This was stupid. You can stay here of course. I’m not sleeping tonight since I have experiments running in the kitchen. Have fun with your atrociously addicting crap television program.”

 

Before Sherlock could get out of bed, Lestrade reached out and grabbed his wrist. “I didn’t mean to offend you! Come back here. Stay. I want you to stay.”

 

“I have to check on the roast.”

 

“Liar. It’s in Mrs. Hudson’s flat which means Mrs. Hudson is keeping an eye on it.” He gave his wrist a reaffirming squeeze before letting go. “I’m glad we’re friends. But if you’d rather call me anything else other than Greg—”

 

“It’s important to you,” Sherlock said firmly. “And I’m trying to treat you better.”

 

“Treat me better? Why? What’s gotten into you?”

 

“Can you just shut up and take your nap?” he snapped, laying back down on his bed. “I’m staying, just like you asked.” Sherlock forcefully closed his eyes and Lestrade laughed at him, and laughed even harder when Sherlock smiled.

 

“Thank you for staying and for making today much better than I was anticipating. Going to the pub for lunch and staying until closing time seemed like a great idea, but instead, I get to hang out with my friend and have a dinner date with him, which is even better.”

 

“Date?” Sherlock squeaked, his eyes snapping open. He almost felt like he had to shield his eyes from Lestrade’s blinding grin. He could feel blood rushing to his cheeks and he swallowed hard, not really sure what he should do.

 

“Yes. Thank you.”

 

Lestrade finally rolled over and picked up the remote that was on the bedside table. He pressed the play button and once again he was watching Blue Bloods, smiling to himself when he felt Sherlock shift just a bit closer, as if he _really_ wanted to watch this terrible show (and not that he wanted to maybe cuddle a little bit).


End file.
